cloakandclaw | [Outpost 12] March 16, 2074 16:43:07

In so many ways, Jack almost prefers dying to being injured. At least when he dies, no matter how much it hurts (and that varies, depending on just how it happens), it is over. When he wakes up, he is healed. He knows it will not take nearly as long as it should for his shoulder to mend, but he has never taken well to being incapacitated.

Martha means well, and it was sensible to give him a sling, to tell him to try to keep his arm as immobile as possible. It will heal quicker that way. But he's going out, and much as it hurts, he would like to be able to use his left arm if necessary, so he's taken it off.

There are a lot of questions that remain unanswered about last night. A lot of things that he feels he needs to know. He's the head of the Torchwood Institute, and more than that he's a soldier. An officer. And he has been for a very long time. That training dies hard, especially if one keeps using it. And he's been using his military training in one way or another since he first joined the army at 18, millennia from now.

He doesn't like unanswered questions, and he doesn't like not knowing what's happening, and what's happened. So he is seeking out the other person who was out there with him last night, the other person who may be capable of answering some of those questions. Who is, it would seem, far from unfamiliar with these sorts of situations. Vincent.

It's not so very far from Jack's room to Vincent's. When he reaches room 610, he knocks. Vincent may, of course, not be here. But his room seems a good place to start.

"Vincent?"

It's fascinating: in all the time he's been here, he doesn't remember anybody knocking at his door. He's simply never invited that, and he doesn't spend a great deal of time here. However... he moves over to the door swiftly, opening it.

"Jack."

This isn't entirely unexpected; he steps aside and gestures for Jack to come in. His room is kept exceedingly tidy: the bed is made, the curtains are drawn just so. The only sign that somebody's actually been in here -- aside from the very large gun in pieces on the table -- is the blanket covering the mirror's surface. If asked, he will explain.

On the other hand, he's got the feeling Jack isn't here to discuss the room's appointments.

"Have a seat." His eyes stray to the shoulder the bullet hit last night. "Your shoulder. How is it?"

He's used to assessing places and situations (and, of course, people) quickly and efficiently. This is a room kept in meticulous order, very different from his own, though his was kept tidier when Ianto was there. The blanket covering the mirror get's a moment's notice, but no comment.

He takes the offered chair; there's no need to stand on ceremony, and given that he is under orders to rest, to do so would probably be somewhat foolish.

"Mending. It's not a serious injury, and I heal quickly."

Vincent, at least, is not making any fuss about it. Not like Martha, not like Abby. He didn't expect him to. Vincent seems to him to be much more the sort to dispassionately analyse a situation. That was certainly the impression he gave last night.

It's a useful trait.

"I take it you weren't hurt last night?"

"No. Nothing serious." But he does reach into a pocket and comes up with a small vial of liquid, which he hands to Jack. "Here. Drink this. It will fix it." He ought to use his few potions sparingly; he can't go back and pick up more at the nearest item shop. However, he... really doesn't mind. He has an annoying propensity for healing quickly himself.

"It's a healing potion. I'm... sorry I didn't think to share it with you last night." It might have helped, but help wasn't really required. Picking up the lubricant and rag, he resumes the cleaning effort on Cerberus. "The store. It's..." For a brief moment, he glances up at Jack. "...fixed. I don't think any of the survivors will be bothering you or River."

That's one way of putting it.

"And I take it you... are here because you have questions." The ragged edges of the cloak wrap around his calves, almost as if they're protecting his thin and frail-looking body. He's anything but frail, however deceiving looks might be.

He takes the little vial Vincent holds out to him, but he doesn't drink it. He's gotten used to the fact that his team knows about his immortality and the accelerated healing that comes with it.

The idea of anyone thinking he needs any sort of healing potion is almost amusing.

"I don't really need this. When I said that I heal quickly, I meant it. Impossibly quickly. My shoulder will be healed as though nothing had happened to it in a matter of a day or two."

That is something he would prefer few people knew about him. But the secret is already out, in some way, at least. He hasn't heard his own name or appearance attached to the rumours about a man returning from the dead, but ... well. Among the guests of the hotel, that's not hard to piece together. Not when he was there, in the lobby of the hotel that day, with a bullet hole over his heart and no sign of injury.

He has little hope of being able to keep it secret. If anything, he's surprised that nobody has asked him about it.

"I'm here because I have always found it useful to debrief after a fight." When one's job is to manage a rift in time and space, sometimes debriefing is the thing that gives one the vital piece of information to solve a puzzle. And there is much about what happened last night that is a puzzle.

Not least of all, the things that Vincent did.

There's something in the way he says that none of the survivors will be bothering either Jack or River makes him narrow his eyes and frown.

"What did you do after we left?"

"Cleaned up." His eyes don't even flicker up from Cerberus now; he's got the third barrel almost as clean as he wants it. "Put things back in order. Moved the deceased to a common spot where their comrades could take care of the bodies. Bound and gagged the survivors. Swept away the debris, put any salvageable retail items back where they belonged. Brought the weapons back here to redistribute as needed." He nods to a spot next to the bureau; a stack of AK-47s is piled up neatly at its side. "And left my name as a calling card. After what happened, it seemed... River might have had enough. I don't think she was aware of what she was doing. Or... at least not fully aware."

There, that's good; with an ease that should be impossible given the armor on his left hand, he reassembles his gun, clicking pieces into place, balancing and testing. Cerberus is the size of half a rifle and heavy, but not as heavy as it might be fully equipped and loaded. Now he looks back up at Jack. "In case you haven't heard the rumors, there's a... monster guarding the hotel roof. I might have mentioned to one of the Dragons that I could make them see anything I wanted, from a young girl to said monster to an entire army. He didn't express interest in questioning the veracity of that statement. But the Dragons will now equate what happened last night with one name and one name only. Vincent Valentine."

He certainly didn't do it out of ego. No: his only interest was in protecting his friend.

"I don't mind. Not so much. I'm... difficult to kill." The potion still sits on the table between them. "And so far as the potion goes, it's up to you. A minute or two to heal versus a day or two: use it or not, as you wish."

He's listening with a great deal of care as Vincent speaks, though anyone watching him might well think he were more interested in Vincent's gun, in pieces on the table, and in the way Vincent carefully reassembles it. The gun is not like any he's seen before, and he knows guns. The fact that the gun he carries himself is antique doesn't reflect any lack of interest in weaponry. Just the opposite, in fact.

Anyone who'd seen some of the things in the armoury at Torchwood would know that. And the armoury is his domain.

"Good," he says, nodding. Those are the same sort of things we would have done, with one difference. Had Jack been cleaning up the Import/Export store, the Dragons wouldn't have remembered anything about what happened.

He has only got a limited supply of Retcon here, but to keep River safe, it would have been worth using it.

And if any of them had been left knowing something about events, he'd have made sure it was his name and face they recalled, not Vincent's. Jack has nothing to fear from them.

"It was unwise to draw all their attention to you, even for River's sake. You say you're difficult to kill. But impossible?"

There's no-one it's impossible to kill. No-one except Jack.

"It was... a risk I was willing to take. Sacrifice one operative to ensure the safety of the rest of the organization? It's a simple directive in any combat organization. You would know that, Captain. As far as being impossible to kill..." He peers into each barrel of his gun before reloading it. Eighteen rounds of three bullets; it's not equipped with any materia at the moment because there's no point in equipping it. "So far, that's proved to be the case."

He's been dead before and he's still here. If he's injured severely enough, he'll transform. That's always happened before he's been killed, although he supposes it's not impossible that he might be so severely injured that Chaos is taken down along with him. There's merit in symbiosis, at least so far as staying alive goes.

"Unwise or not, the deed is done. I'm prepared to accept the consequences of my actions."

He doubts River could make that same claim.

He nods in acknowledgement. It is, indeed, a directive he's familiar with. One that various leaders of Torchwood, right back to the 19th century, have been eager to ensure he follows. It was always Jack who was sent on the most dangerous of missions, the ones with no hope of survival.

His life is expendable.

He does the same thing now, though there's no directive from anyone but him. He'd die a thousand times over, even if he knew he'd never revive, if it stopped him losing a single member more of his team. Ianto calls that selfless. Jack calls it practical.

"It proves to be the case for everyone until the day it suddenly isn't." Everyone and everything dies in the end. Even shapeshifters with exceptional combat skills.

With one exception.

"I would have had my name associated with it. I truly am impossible to kill."

"So am I, it would seem. It's... no competition; the thing is done. Next time, you can impress the Dragons with your selflessness. At your discretion." Cerberus twists in his hand; he stuffs it back into its holster and stands. "What you see when you look at me is not all there is."

And it's a story he's not particularly inclined to outline in detail at the moment.

"It's... complicated."

To put it mildly; he paces to the mirror and pulls down the blanket, folds it, sets it aside. What he sees when he looks into it... doesn't matter. He can go back into his cocoon once he's alone again.

"It's not selfless, it's practical. Sacrifice the life you can most afford to lose. That's a simple directive, too, one I live by."

He's gotten used to being the dispensable one. He didn't win those gallantry awards during the World Wars because he was brave, as such. It was because he put himself in the line of danger, knowing the risk was not the same for him as for the others in his company or squadron. Knowing that he could afford to die.

There's more than a little curiousity in his expression as Vincent takes down the blanket over the mirror. But he doesn't say anything about it; whatever they are, Vincent must have his reasons. Jack knows well enough that there are some things that are intensely private.

"If you really are impossible to kill, it could hardly be anything but complicated."

When things that are supposed to be impossible - like an immortal man, a man who wakes up again every time he dies - happen, it's always complicated.

He stands and walks over to the mirror, stares into its depths for a moment. He, like Vincent, is not what he appears on the surface. The face that looks back out of the mirror at him looks ... 35. Perhaps 40 at the most, when the light is bad and he's tired. It's looked that age for 140 years.

"I should know. My very existence ought to be impossible."

Oh, Rose.

He hopes that she has no idea what she did to him in that moment of well-intentioned compassion.

Other people are always a curiosity to him. It's been so long since he was normal, he hardly knows what to do when he's around it. For his own reasons, he keeps his activities regimented, almost as if he'd fall apart without the routine. It's... the only way he has of doing things, knowing what he knows and being who and what he is. After all, it could be simple routine that controls Chaos.

He... doesn't know, and wishes he did. One day he might find out, but it likely won't be today.

"It appears... we have more in common than would seem to be the case on the surface. Are you also someone's experiment?"

The word experiment costs him heavily as it leaves his lips; he doesn't like the thought, let alone the discussion that inevitably follows. But true kindred spirits are few and far between. He has one at home in Nanaki, despite the fact that the nature of his experimentation was entirely different. Still, if misery loves company then... his misery ought to at least be companionable for a while.

Jack turns away from the mirror. There are, it seems, more people here than he would expect with whom he shares some strange sort of affinity. He has, in his time, been an experiment, the plaything of those who ... wished to test the limits of his immortality. Or the limits of his mind.

But his immortality is no such experiment. Perhaps it would be easier to deal with if he thought there had been some sort of purpose to it, rather than just a mistake by a friend who didn't want to see him die.

"No. I'm the result of the actions of a well-meaning but misguided friend. An accident."

And yet, he can never blame her for it. That's just Rose for you. Always so selfless.

He was prepared to die that day. He always expected to die young.

Oh. They have less in common than he thought; so much for companionable misery. He would never think to describe Professor Hojo as a well-meaning but misguided anything, never mind friend. And while it's possible that his being here is the result of a simple accident -- had Lucrecia not done further random experiments on him, if that's in fact what she did, he might not be here at all -- it's probably not the same kind of accident that Jack's referring to.

Now he's sorry he broached the subject.

"At least... there's some comfort in the well-meaning part. I'm happy on your behalf." He stops, glances down at the armor on his feet, the claw on his hand, the cloak that wraps around his body as if it needs to feed on him. Maybe that's exactly what it is doing.

And it might just keep doing it for all eternity.

"To answer your earlier question more fully, I don't know definitively that I can't die. Call it a hypothesis on my part, based on observation, reasoning, and the process of elimination."

Is there comfort in that? He's never found much.

"The only comfort in it is the thought that perhaps she doesn't know what she did to me."

When Rose made him immortal, she had powers beyond those any human should ever have. Beyond those any human could ever control. She'd absorbed some of the power of time itself, and that made her like a goddess. She didn't realise the damage she was doing to him.

He hopes the Doctor never told her she condemned her friend to all of eternity.

"For my part, I hope that your hypothesis is wrong."

There are questions he could ask Vincent. Questions about what happened to him, about who experimented on him. And about what it is that makes him think that he can truly never die. If he doesn't know that for certain, there is some hope for him. There's none for Jack. He used to believe there was, that when he'd done enough or when he'd fulfilled whatever purpose fate had in mind for him that he'd be free.

He'd hoped that facing Abaddon was that purpose. He'd died for three whole days, then. But he'd been wrong. There's no such release for him.

An accident.

"Eternity is not something anyone should have to face."

"I don't know how anyone can, rationally." He, of course, isn't superhuman. He was just a Turk -- and a lowly Turk at that -- who got caught up in circumstances beyond his control, beyond what Shin-Ra taught in any of their training sessions. He spent thirty years shut in a coffin in a locked room protected by a monster, with only one interruption before Cloud's party came along and gave him a reason for rejoining the human race. What's sane about that? How can he be expected to act rationally after an experience like that?

He... can't, and he isn't, and if he has his quirks, so be it: he's earned them. Does he wish it had been different? Of course he does. But he can't change it. He can't change anything. Nothing he does, nothing he says, nothing he wishes for, nothing he tries will bring Lucrecia back to life and even if it did, it wouldn't make her whole again.

The thought of her the way she is now distresses him beyond all reason, and he's not sure if seeing her encased in Mako ever makes him feel better, but... well, it's not about him feeling better. It's about stealing one more opportunity to speak with her, even if she's only an echo, a remnant, a shadow of her former self.

So is he.

He takes a step toward the mirror, and another, and gazes into it. What he sees never fails to unnerve him, although he tries to look on himself with the utmost degree of dispassion he can muster. He's gaunt and pale, red-eyed, long-haired, ragged, armored, covered, scarred, hidden, and most definitely not sane. There's so little of him left now; so much of him has been pushed out of the way to make room for Chaos.

Some days, he thinks the coffin was preferable.

"Neither do I."

To be brutally honest, the thought terrifies him. There's not much of which that could be said. But Jack has spent so much of the past 140 years hating every moment of his existence, hating Earth, hating himself, that often the thought of just one more day has been too much for him to bear. Let alone the thought of eternity.

He spent so long waiting for the answers to how he got the way he is, to what hope there is for him in the future.

Will I ever be able to die?

He'd hoped that the answer would be different to the one he got.

He's not cut out for immortality.

"Except, perhaps, to take it one day at a time, finding things to make it bearable."

And yet the only things he's ever found to make himself able to cope with what he is are also the things that are going to make it impossible to bear one day. How many more people can he lose before it drives him insane? Perhaps, in a way, being stuck in this place is a good thing for him. It saves him having to see Ianto and Gwen and Tosh die, as they inevitably will. As everyone does.

"It's the only thing we can do, realistically. Take it one day at a time." Now he turns to face Jack, searching his face. He... sees nothing but earnest pain and similar stories or not, that's something he understands only too well.

Sometimes, one has to concede. Sometimes, one has to reveals bits and pieces of his story so he might gain or share further understanding. Sometimes, it's time to give just a small amount, like it or not. "I spent thirty years sealed in a coffin. No food, no water: just my thoughts, fears, and memories. That... should have killed me. It certainly would have killed someone capable of dying. There, it wasn't one day at a time. It was one thought at a time, one breath at a time. I survived -- if you can call it survival -- like that for thirty years."

It felt like three hundred.

"I lost... not only my will to live, but my will to die. Is there any surprise when I tell you that the art of life and death has become a... long and tiresome game?"

Vincent's red eyes studying him are disconcerting, not because of their colour, but because of their intensity. Because of what Vincent might be seeing in his face. Jack averts his gaze and turns away for a moment.

Something twists inside him in disgust. The thought of what Vincent has been through is repulsive to him. And nothing about it moreso than the thought that there have been times when the same could have been done to him.

"God." When he turns around to face Vincent again, back to the wall, his reaction to the mere idea is clear in his voice. And his expression.

"The only thing surprising about that is that you have any sanity left at all."

And yet ... as Jack himself knows, when death is not an option, it's remarkable what one can survive. He'd been sure, at the time, that what the Master did to him would destroy him. And, for a while, it did. But he is recovering.

The Doctor makes much of the resilience of humanity.

Perhaps he's right. But Jack himself ... well, he finds something compelling in Vincent's description of life and death as a tiresome game.

There are times when he almost thinks he can cope with it. He'd ... nearly enjoyed the past months in Cardiff. But he's old and tired, and inevitably, life loses its allure again.

Now the look Jack gets is sharp and quick. "Sanity. I wonder some days." That... is all the moroseness he'll allow, though; he's got other things to do with his time.

Probably. If he were alone, this might be one of the days he'd spend in the corner of his room, knees hugged to his chest shaking uncontrollably. He's about due; he hasn't allowed himself one of those for quite some time now. That's one alternative to the whole life-and-death game but... well... he'll only wallow in self-pity for so long before it starts to add to the enormity of the weight he already carries.

He's got so much to atone for... and he's not even a man of faith. Still, he recognizes sin when it stares back at him from the absolute darkness of incarceration. He failed in his duty, and he did so spectacularly. And all he had to do was be one woman's bodyguard.

Look at what got unleashed on their world as a result of his lack of competence.

"One would think taking the opportunity to change into a... monster would be a welcome break from the regular routine."

There. Confession Number Two, and to the second person today. He might as well just carry around a sign telling everybody, but he knows the rumor is like a freight train: once it gathers enough speed, it becomes nearly impossible to stop.

"You can stop pretending not to be curious about it now. Ask questions. I... don't mind so very much."

He leans back against the wall, right hand toying idly with the fingers of his left.

"I already knew about it. That was you on the roof of the hotel."

Apart from being intensely loyal as a lover, Ianto is also a skilled field agent. Once Jack had recovered from dying, the two of them had shared their stories of what had happened. Between what Ianto had seen and what Jack had heard in the city, they had pieced together events and their conclusions had pointed squarely to Vincent. Especially as Jack had already suspected that he was not entirely human.

He tilts his head, just slightly, and now it's Jack who is studying Vincent carefully.

"Is the ability to transform also the result of experimentation?" The words themselves seem perhaps a little callous, even to him. He is not a man to sugar-coat a question unless it's absolutely necessary. And when it is, he sends Gwen to ask it.

There's compassion in his tone, though, and that's more than is often there. Though he wants answers, though he's curious, he also, in some ways, understands that this cannot be easy for Vincent. But the offer's been made.

He's more than used to being looked at like a specimen in a cage and whether or not that's Jack's intention, it's how it comes across. But... well, he did offer and as such has no right to complain about it now.

"Yes." He moves back over to the chair and sits, heavily; the cloak drapes itself around his legs and body. "I was bodyguard to a scientist and her... partner, a man named Professor Hojo... shot and killed me, then decided to see if he could modify my body to be host to... well, let's call it a planetary elemental. An alien, really; consort to an even more powerful alien. The details on the nature of their arrival on our planet has been lost to the annals of time but I suppose I could claim I'm lucky this... elemental being lives on in me. Otherwise I'd be dead now. It's... a mixed blessing."

Stretching out his long thin legs, he shakes his head almost sadly. "I don't know what he did to me in scientific terms; I was dead at the time. But he gave up, and the scientist I'd been sent to protect did... more experiments and what you see... is the end result." He has to gloss over this; it's too painful to admit that the woman he loved used his body for scientific experimentation. "At some point in the process I was successfully... reanimated and woke up to find claws on both hands and... well." He holds up his armored hand, the back of it facing Jack; the claws on this armor are a good enough representation of the reality and showing is easier than telling. There were other changes too, but he won't go into that; Jack will get enough of a picture. "I was... horrified, and terrified, and the next thing I knew I found myself in the laboratory in a stasis tube watching events unfold. I suppose one could say that was my first imprisonment. But..." His shrug is as mild as the minimal tilt of his head. "Details. Apparently, Hojo's experiment worked. I'm host to an invulnerable immortal shape-shifting chaotic force... or, I'm Vincent Valentine. I may be host, but I can only be one or the other. One monster at a time."

He... despises this story, and is helpless to change it.

He tries to watch, impassive, with just a frown of concentration on his face. But once again, he can't. He works for Torchwood. He can in no way pretend to be completely innocent of ever having been involved in any sort of experimentation which pushed the boundaries of what anyone else would call ethical.

He'd taken the high moral ground with Copley for just that reason. He's seen too much experimentation, seen too many sentient creatures treated as though their pain didn't matter, to let that bastard get away with what he was doing.

You're involved in alien research, Jack!

Never like this. This is slavery, exploitation, a war crime!

He has no remorse for shooting Copley. None for shutting down that facility.

He looks back at Vincent, and his voice is measured as he speaks.

"And this creature is the source of your immortality and shapeshifting." He takes a deep breath. "I think I'd rather be dead."

He shifts position slightly. Vincent may perhaps take it as a fidget of discomfort. He would not necessarily be wrong to do so. For the first time since he found himself here, he's relieved not to be in Cardiff.

He would hate what he would be duty-bound to do if he ever came across Vincent there.

"Its name is Chaos." They... might as well make the introductions complete. "Aptly named. When Chaos emerges, I... have no idea where I go. What he does is not what I would do, or... at least I don't think it is. In the moment I have no idea what happens, how he -- it -- acts, what kinds of things it does."

Now the armor on his hand is very interesting; he takes the pieces of it off, one by one, and sets them down on the table's surface, leaving only the gloved hand below. He rubs that palm now with the thumb on his right hand; the armor is heavy and from time to time, his hand and arm ache. "The only time it's a threat is if my body sustains enough injury, which... is why I carry the potions. It's rarely predominant. Only if I can't get to some sort of healing potion or cure materia in time. Then it can take over. Otherwise... no. It's just me."

And still, he has to agree with Jack: he'd rather be dead.

"So it doesn't just change your form, it completely possesses you." He moves to cross his arms, and a stab of pain from his shoulder reminds him that perhaps the sling would have been a good idea. He winces, just slightly.

"I know of creatures that can possess a person, but not like that." There are shapeshifters, there are creatures that need to possess a body. Usually, the two are mutually exclusive. He shakes his head. Vincent didn't ask for his opinion or expertise. He doesn't know what Jack does back in Cardiff to know that he can.

But the number of things he's hearing here that don't fit with anything he knows or anything that even seems possible is disconcerting to say the least. After all, his ability to know these things has been all that stood between Earth and destruction many times.

"I've never heard anything like it." That's probably no comfort. But then, there's precious little to be had. He can only imagine how or why it happened.

Unfortunately, because of the things he knows, the things he's seen and done, he can imagine. He can perhaps conceive some of what the science might entail, with a sufficiently talented - and ruthless - scientist. But he can't in any way imagine what it must have been like for Vincent, and for that, he's relieved.

There are enough horrors in his imagination already.

"Neither had I, before... well." Slowly, the bits and pieces of armor on the table slide back toward his left hand as though there's some sort of magnet beneath forcing the movement; he doesn't even pay it attention. He knows that armor is as much a part of him now as his own skin and... there's nothing he can do about it. It will return to his hand no matter how far he throws it. And so he holds his hand out for it like a mother would to a child, waiting.

And sure enough, the pieces slowly move back into place, the gauntlet first and then the smaller pieces. He can no sooner keep them away than he can control Chaos and whether or not they're related, he... doesn't know.

He can tell Jack one thing. "My father was a scientist; I grew up in a scientific household. I was taught at an early age to admire the scientific process and... well, I do have a great deal of appreciation for the... innovation required to be a good scientist. But on a more personal level, I'm done with it. I've been the experiment and don't wish to repeat the experience. So." His armored hand flexes and contracts.

"One would think that in your time you've seen a great deal and have an equally great degree of curiosity about things like... well, like this. Knowing what you know, I request that you -- and anyone else here -- honor my wishes. Take my word for what I am and... leave me alone. Scientifically speaking, that is."

Whether or not anyone will abide by his wishes is, of course, entirely out of his control.

It's much easier to watch the armour reassembling itself, to idly contemplate it, than it is to look into Vincent's red eyes as he makes that request. Piece by piece, the armour returns to precisely where it was before Vincent took it off. He finds himself wondering what sort of technology makes it do that.

But for a long time, he remains silent.

In so many ways, it was easier when the decisions were out of his hands. When he was taking orders. Because then, he could rail against the things he was told to do all he wanted. He could shout and fight and argue morality just as well as Gwen does now. Until somebody would remind him that, strictly, according to the rules, his place was in the vaults under observation. And if he didn't do just what he was ordered, that was where he'd go.

In the end, they weren't his decisions to make. Those choices about what was a threat, what wasn't, and what was to be done about it. And, mostly, whatever he thought of the decision, when it was made ... he executed it. Efficiently and ruthlessly. A proper little soldier.

He understands the reasoning so much better now that those decisions are his to make. When the choice is between unleashing a potential alien threat on the world or locking it up and observing it, profiling it, testing it ... he'd come down on the side of the safety of the city he's sworn to protect every time.

"It's not just curiousity," he says at last, "it's what I do."

He's spent so much time lying about himself, about who he is and what he does, that his instinct is to do just that. But confidentiality is not so important here. Its main purpose is to keep the people of Cardiff protected from the things they can't or don't understand. Vincent needs no such protection.

"Back on Earth, my job is to protect humanity from alien threats. Not to experiment -" he draws the line there, for what it's worth "- but to study, profile, and asess."

Now he does look Vincent in the eye. There must be a little of the hardness and steel that Gwen so often rebukes him for in his expression.

"Were this there and then, it would be my duty to do just that."

He doesn't drop his gaze this time.

"But I've been experimented on myself. Sometimes at the hands of the very organisation I work for." He shakes his head.

"I'm not duty-bound here. Unless and until you prove otherwise, I'll take your word."

"I'm not an alien threat." That's about as plainly as he can state his case; his brows knit together in consternation. "But... remind me, Jack Harkness, never to travel to your world. I... wouldn't like to have to face you on your home turf."

Something that almost qualifies as a grim smile settles on his face. "I would be the enemy, regardless of any prior experiences we might have. Under that set of circumstances, I wouldn't have to fight to keep Chaos in check. But since neither of us can leave, apparently, it's a moot point." Still, it's good to know what potential exists.

As he did with Michael, he takes a Phoenix Down from his pocket and sets it on the table. "You know about the potions. this also is... important. If I'm injured in battle and still in human form -- if I'm... unconscious or incapable of movement -- give me this and I will revive. Again, I only transform under the most grievous of circumstances. If those are avoided, there... is no cause for worry."

It's the truth so far as he knows, although he would rest easier at night if he knew why things happen the way they do. But... well, he doesn't, and who's to say there aren't other instances where Chaos would emerge and take over? It wasn't too long ago that he hadn't ever become a part of his cloak, either, but he can do that at will now.

"At the store, I took on the form of my cloak." As with his armor, there's a symbiotic relationship. "This form is entirely benevolent. Protective. Nearly impossible to harm. I like to think it's a built-in safety mechanism of my own making. If I'm unharmed, there's... nothing to fear from me, except the wrath of my gun."

"The city I live in is built on a rift in time and space. Things fall through from other planets and times. I make sure that anything dangerous is contained and anything useful is salvaged."

There's a little grim satisfaction for Jack in Vincent's acknowledgement that, though Vincent is skilled in combat and host to a force that can do a great deal of damage, Jack would not be an easy adversary to face. He nods in silent recognition of the fact.

His immortality is of great advantage to Torchwood. But it's a relief that the circumstances will probably not eventuate. Vincent would be, at best, a formidable enemy, from what Jack has seen and from Ianto's reports.

He steps forward and picks up the thing Vincent has just put on the table. It appears to be some sort of feather, red and gold. Wherever this Gaia is that Vincent is from, there are many things about it which are foreign to Jack's extensive knowledge and experience.

It's kind of fascinating, in a way.

But Vincent hasn't shown it to him for the sake of his curiousity.

"You want to avoid transforming again."

There may be more trouble ahead for Vincent. Retribution from the Dragons for the damage to them that he took the blame for. And there was never any guarantee that fighting them off once would keep the hotel safe for long.

It's wise to have a contingency plan.

He nods and puts the feather back down.

"I'll do what I can."

And if it gets to the point where Vincent does transform ... he'll do what he can then, too.

"For what it's worth..."

Now there's a useless phrase: things are either worth something or they aren't, and it's not particularly subjective. However, he's started and so he'll finish. "In battles at home when I've taken on alternate form, I'm told I've never yet attacked a comrade, unless someone cast Confusion on me. Perhaps I share more with Chaos than I realize."

He can take some small comfort in that knowledge too, and does. "The Phoenix Down can be found in my right inner cloak pocket." As if that information wants demonstration, he picks the feather up and puts it away. "Potions on the left-hand side."

Since Jack won't drink the potion, he puts that away too.

He refuses to think of himself as a danger, but at the same time, can't help but do exactly that. It's... why he's exiled himself, largely, from the hotel grounds.

"And no, I don't want to transform again. Losing one's self to a monster is... unpleasant."

And he is becoming the master of understatement.

"However, it's... preferable to being locked in a coffin for thirty years." Now he does almost smile, however briefly, at his own little joke. Truthfully, he'd like to avoid both eventualities.

"I'd say it's worth a bit." Both to him and to anyone who may find themself fighting alongside him. It's never good to have to fight with one eye on a comrade to make sure that they're not as dangerous to you as the enemy.

He's been in that situation before.

Never having turned on a comrade is more than could be said o Jack, after all. It was not so long ago he shot a woman who'd been his second-in-command dead. Not so long before that he'd held a gun to Ianto's head and come close to shooting. (The thought of what he almost let his anger do that day still haunts him. His only regret about Suzie is letting it get as far as it did, not seeing what she as sooner.)

And though there seem to be a great number of reasons not to, he feels that, should it come to another fight, he can trust Vincent. Chaos ... well, that he'll have to wait and see about.

He watches as the feather and the bottle go back into Vincent's cloak, taking care to note precisely where they are in case he's ever called on to use them.

"I've seen it. Not people transformed, but people possessed who did things they had no control over."

Whatever anyone else might say, he firmly maintains that, all secrecy aside, Retconning Carys Fletcher after she'd killed all those men under possession was merciful. That girl had a long life ahead of her. She shouldn't have to live with that.

"I can well imagine you'd do anything to stop it happening."

"One likes a small measure of control."

It's the story of his life. Pushing back his chair now, he stands.

"Are we... debriefed?" His thoughts swim; he's told more to Jack than he meant to do but... well, he can't take it back and there's a small bit of comfort and relief in the sharing.

Still, at heart, he's a solitary being and a strange one; he knows this only too well. He could no sooner sit around the rest of the afternoon sharing war stories than he could divest himself of his cloak and armor. "I know you think the move I made last night was foolish. Look at it this way: any who test me will find that what I told them is only a partial lie. But... they seem to be a superstitious lot. Perhaps they'll let it rest, knowing that several of their comrades did die because of... oh, whatever it was on the roof. They may not want to risk more of their numbers at the moment."

If they do, he's still prepared to suffer the consequences. But he'll face them alone... and with no danger to Jack or to River or to any of the others. That's the way it has to be.

"Sufficiently so, unless you have any questions for me."

He has no need to justify himself to anyone, but if Vincent asks, he'll tell him why he left. It was uncharacteristic of him to turn and run in the middle of a battle. He's normally one to stand his ground until the thing is done. And he would have done just that, whatever the end result was, had it not been for that pleading little voice in his head, begging him for Simon.

As it turns out, running for him was the thing that needed to be done.

That's some small relief, but it doesn't make him any more pleased about having left Vincent and River in the thick of things. He remembers well the time when he would have turned and run. When he had not yet learned courage. That is a man he never wants to be again.

"Your actions were strategically sound. Our aim is to protect River." He, however, does not, and he dislikes seeing people put themselves in danger for his sake. People have died that way, people who need not have died. Charisma isn't always a desirable trait.

"But if you ever need backup, let me know." He gives an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. He doubts Vincent will take him up on the offer. But it had to be made.

He's not the one who needed to debrief last night's mission; he knows exactly what happened. They both followed River; River got into trouble; Jack was injured; Jack left to get Simon; he stayed to protect River. It was perfectly fair. Once Simon arrived, he took his sister home and Jack went for medical attention. He... stayed to clean up. When that was accomplished, he came back without further incident.

It's fairly straightforward, and he has no questions.

"If I do need backup, I will let you know. We're... evenly matched. One of us alone might be more than they can handle. Together, I think... the Dragons wouldn't stand much of a chance. Strategically speaking, of course. So... thanks. For your help last night." And for any potential future help as well, although he'll leave that unspoken for now.

He's not so very good at expressing gratitude.

He allows himself a small, not quite mirthless, smile. There's a lot of truth to Vincent's words. They have much more in common than immortality. It seems that one of those things they share is extensive training from, as Vincent put it, "combat organisations".

It's not so very often that he meets someone who's as hardened a warrior as he is. The two of them appear to make a good team. They would be more than a match for the Dragons.

And as Jack is now without the one person he can always turn to for backup, that's a good thing to know.

It's even better to know that neither of them has anything to fear from death.

It was fortunate the two of them were there. As it turned out, their peculiar abilities were just what the situation required. Aside from both of them being skilled fighters, Vincent's cloak form was able to protect River; Jack's psychic training allowed him to get through to her.

"And you for yours."

And that's really all that needs to be said, so he makes for the door. He pauses on his way out only long enough to give Vincent one last nod.

...All right. Moving over to the mirror, he gives himself a long, hard look. What he sees really... is irrelevant. Appearances can be deceptive and looks don't matter. It's what's inside that counts, or so he's been told. With a grim and small laugh, he nods to his alter-ego, the one who never speaks back.

It's Chaos he sees, although he only knows what it looks like from the reports of others. Still, there's never been anything wrong with his imagination.

Perhaps today isn't the day to cower in the corner, though. No, it's probably a better day to go outside, find a nice treetop, and sit and think. At least in the wooded areas, there are no mirrors.

[Outpost 12] March 16, 2074 16:43:07

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